Nobody Said It Was Easy
by jesisdabes
Summary: She's important. She's always been important. And now she's back, and Santana has no idea what to do.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** She's important. She's always been important. And now she's back, and Santana has no idea what to do.

**Author's Note: **So this is new for me... First story, like ever... So be nice!

And if you think it's good, or at least decent, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE review :)

Much obliged, much obliged

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**Nobody Said It Was Easy**

There was a knock on the door.

_Ugh. Fuck. Are you kidding me? _I'm tangled in my sheets; my legs are sprawled out like I'm fucking superman. I don't want to get up. I can't get up.

There was another series of knocks.

_Go away. _My mouth musters a small grunt. I slowly roll over to my side, and force my eyes to open. A rush of pain slaps me right in the forehead. The room starts to move, and my stomach does a backward flip. I immediately squeeze my eyes shut.

_Shit. Why am I not sober yet?_ I turn my head to peak at the window; it was black.

Another grunt escapes me as I realize how late it actually still is. My mind rewinds to just a couple of hours ago: tequila, dancing, girls, more tequila, more dancing, some smoking, even more tequila, and a hell of a lot more girls. My brow furrows; I don't even remember ever getting into bed.

I press my palm to my forehead, as the idiot still knocks on my door. The pounding was deafening and obnoxious, and it did not help the pain at all. I feel like I went bull riding, even though I have no idea what that would feel like, but I see it as something excruciatingly painful, so I go for it; every inch of my body aches.

I finally get the urge to speak, "Coming! … Hold your fucking panties." The last part I mutter to myself, as I force my neck to move to the opposite side of the window, toward my clock. The red numbers mock me when they flash and spell out 4:32.

_This is some bullshit. _I take a few, quick breaths and force myself up. Bad idea.

My stomach contorts, and I rush to the bathroom down the hall. I find the toilet just in time, as I upchuck what seemed to be all of my insides. I cringe and wipe my mouth on the nearest towel. I look down, and let out a heavy sigh. Chunky, yellow crap was smeared all over Kurt Cobain's face. "I'm sorry," I mumble, and throw my favorite t-shirt on the floor with dismay. I'm hoping that's the last vile thing that comes out of my mouth today. I climb my way to my feet, and rinse my mouth, gurgling back some Listerine. I take a deep breath and manage to walk unsteadily to the front door. I take another heavy sigh, and look through the peephole.

The image was blurry, probably because I was still drunk; it was impossible for me to make out the person's silhouette. I racked my brain, and the figure outside of my door slowly came into focus. It was a girl, by the looks of it. She was tall, had long blonde hair, and if my eyes were playing tricks on me, she looked extremely stunning. I focus on her bright blue eyes, and they sparkle with familiarity. I push myself away from the peephole, and regret it immediately, as I slide five feet and slam into the back of my couch.

_Shit. Shit shit shit. Shit._ _This can't be happening. What is she doing here?_

Brittany's voice echoes through my apartment walls, "Santana, are you okay? Can you please open the door?"

_Am I okay?_ I rub my lower back. She must have heard me ram into my couch. How fucking embarrassing. I gradually make my way to the door, trying to ignore the fact that I'm still wasted and that this is not going to end well at all. I take a gulp of what I hope to be confidence, turn the knob, and open the door.

"Hi." There's uncertainty in Brittany's voice. My words are glued to my tongue. I can't speak. I can't breathe.

I instantly realize that I look like crap, and probably reek of alcohol. I'm wearing a black tank top and some black spanks, my hair tousled in a messy bun. I sneak a glance at Brittany; she's beautiful as ever.

Brittany continues, "Can I come in?" I nod without really knowing what I'm doing, and let her walk through. She moves past me, making sure our shoulders don't touch, and heads in. My eyes drop to the floor. I'm frozen, and my brain can't seem to make my feet move. I'm stuck.

_What the fuck is she doing here?_

"How… How are you?" Brittany's words tremble from her lips.

"Good," I say to the floor. I could hear the disappointment as her feet creak against the floorboard. My eyes follow her footsteps, and they find her standing in the middle of the apartment. I can't help but notice her ass. I blush slightly and glance back down. I'm trying to figure out what to say next, when I spot a purple bra near the front door. I scan the entirety of the place. I frown.

_I am such a fucking slob. _Not that I'm trying to impress Brittany or anything, but I begin to pick up random shit off the floor, swaying a little bit as I go. A ruffled, paint-splattered t-shirt, an empty vodka bottle, a pair of high heels, and…. I snatch a small, plastic bag from the couch and stuff it in my tits before Brittany turns to face me. I plop on the couch and awkwardly cross my legs, realizing yet again that I'm like sort-of still naked.

_Please God, tell me she didn't see that. _

I speak before Brittany can say anything, "Do you, uh, want anything to drink?"

She was caught off guard, but she smiles anyway. "Oh. Yeah, sure. Thanks."

I get up off my ass and head into the kitchen, swearing under my breath. I grab a random glass off of the counter. It looks dirty, so I rinse it out. I never have the patience to do the dishes, because I usually never eat, or I'm too fucked up to really care. I contemplate what I have for beverages, and deciding not to pour her straight up scotch, I fill the glass up with tap.

I turn around and my heart jumps out of my chest. Brittany magically appeared in front of me, her body inches from mine. She's leaning against the counter, her palms resting on the sides. I hand Brittany the glass and decide to orient myself against the fridge; the farthest from her I am, the better. I feel extremely nauseous at this point. I need coffee, several cigarettes, and a large glass of brandy.

"Thanks." She takes a sip, not commenting on how nasty the water probably tastes. She looks at me, and I can't help but stare back at her. I notice a pink, diamond stud on the left side of her nose, and I suppress a smile. I haven't seen that before, so I guess it's fairly new; it looks good on her. My eyes dive down to her lips, and regret it immediately. How many times have I kissed those? How many times have they traced my cheek, my neck, and… My brain drives down memory lane. But as I drool over her lips, my eyes catch something else: the lightly faded scar, right below her left earlobe, from when she burned herself with my flat iron… I flinch, reminiscing on the intimate memory.

_Don't. Don't do this to yourself._

My eyes meet hers again, and I finally see something I didn't want to see, something that I've been dreading since she walked into my door: pain. I couldn't take this anymore.

_She knew how badly it ended, and why it ended, so why is she back?_

"Brittany, what are you doing here?" It was the only thing I could come up with. The sentence was slurred, yet she didn't respond, and instead she stared at the kitchen tile. Her foot was outlining something black on the floor, probably some five-month stain that I never got the chance to clean up. I say her name again, "Brittany."

That did it. Tears come streaming down her face as she slides off the counter and hits the floor. She buries her head into her hands, and starts to shake uncontrollably. I gape at her, not knowing what had caused her to react this way. And I just stand there.

Again, I can't move, but this time I want to. I want to kiss her, like really kiss her, and tell her that everything's going to be okay. I want to tell her that I'm a complete mess without her, that I fucked everything up. But I just can't. I can't do that, I can't go back. I can't go back to how things were. I won't allow it. I won't allow Brittany to endure any more of my pathetic bullshit. No.

_But God do I want to kiss her._

I bend down, trying not to fall, "Brittany." There's nothing but sobs.I hesitantly place my hand on her back, "Britt, you need to get up. C'mon." I offer her my hand and surprisingly she takes it, and before I know it, she's in my arms.

_Holy fuck. She smells so damn good._

We just stand there, in my kitchen, holding each other, and I don't ever want to let go. But I know I have to do something besides just caressing her hair and rubbing her back. Brittany's breath is hot against my neck and all of my senses go haywire. Trying to make a rational decision in my head, I gingerly wrap my arms around Brittany's waist, and carefully push her in the direction of the couch. Her arms are still enveloped around my neck, so it looks like we're awkwardly dancing our way off a stage. I set her down and sit beside her. Brittany moves her legs across my lap, and presses her face to my collarbone. She claws at my tank top, and without thinking, my fingers trickle down her thigh. With my other hand, I start to stroke her hair, over and over again. It was a calming method I used to use on Brittany when she had a frantic meltdown or when she was really upset about something. She hiccups and sniffles, but she won't say anything. I still have no idea what the fuck to do, so I just let her cry into my arms.

_Okay. So, Britt is all up on me, after what, five years?_ All she's said tonight is a 'hi', a 'how are you', and a 'thanks'. And then she just cries. Nothing. She's giving me nothing. It's frustrating. There's a reason why she's here, I know it. I have to stay fucking calm; for my sake and for Brittany's. I have to be the strong one.

"Brittany?" She presses harder into my shoulder. "Britt." Her knuckles tighten on my tank, exposing the strap of my black-laced bra. "I need you to look at me." I tilt her chin upward; our lips are centimeters away from touching. I'm aware of this distance, and my breathing becomes erratic. Brittany notices. Her puffy, red eyes lock onto mine and she stops crying immediately. Everything seems to stop. I get lost in her deep, blue eyes; I'm transfixed. Brittany has the brightest eyes I have ever seen. Not that I haven't noticed before, it's just been way too long. I miss the way they shine whenever she smiles, or the way they bounce whenever she gets excited. But now that I watch those bright cerulean orbs swim, there's something off about them. Right now, there's something in them that I can't quite figure out. It's fucking frustrating, because I know that that something is the reason for Brittany being here, and maybe the same reason why she's crying. I continue to stare at my ex-girlfriend.

As if she notices my scrutiny, and as if she can't take any more of it, Brittany breaks away. She unslings her arms from around my neck, and sweeps her legs off of my lap. "I'm sorry," she whispers, "I should go." She fades from the couch and heads toward the door, leaving me in complete torment. My mouth drops to the floor.

_Oh hell to the fucking no. She can't be seriously ditching._ I don't know what came over me, but I leap over the sofa and block her from the doorway. I stagger a bit before I find my balance.

"Wait, you can't just go, not when you blatantly just cried in my arms for like ten minutes." I can feel the anger rise up in my throat.

Brittany's once bright, blue eyes are now replaced with darker ones that seem to be dripping with venom. She shakes her head and glares. "Don't. First of all, you're drunk. Yes, I can tell. And I saw the way you looked at me…" Brittany folds her arms tightly across her chest, like she's trying to make a point. "I shouldn't have come here, okay? I was stupid, and obviously not ready for this." She takes a step toward me, but I block her path again.

"What? No, no fucking way, Britt." She tries to maneuver around me, but I wouldn't let her.

"God damn it Santana, what's your problem?" Her hands were on her hips, as they buck to the right.

"My problem?" I'm furious, and my drunken-self gets the best of me. My hands are up in the air, and I start to spit fire. "Oh, okay, because you randomly knocking on my fucking door at 4 o'clock in the fucking morning is my problem? Or inviting yourself into my place after all this fucking time is my problem? And then, you can't find the fucking words to say, so you cry and break down in my fucking arms, because, you know, that's my problem too! Like, what the fuck do you want, Brittany? Because right now is the perfect time to fucking say it to my fucking face!"

And then there was silence.

Brittany just stares at me, for what seems to be the longest time in the world.

"I need a fucking cigarette." I say this mostly to myself, not giving a rat's ass about what Brittany thought. She hates when I swear. She hates that I smoke. I leave Brittany by the door, and scoop the pack of cigarettes off of the floor from my bedside. I open the window, and step out to the fire-escape landing. I perch on the ledge, dangle my feet, and light one. I close my eyes, the nicotine running through my bloodstream; it tastes so good. I roll my neck to stretch its tight muscles, though my whole body throbs with pain.

_What the fuck did I do last night? _I know how my Friday nights go, but it seems something was out of the ordinary tonight. I don't quite remember. Thankfully, the small buzz from the cigarette kills the uneasiness in my stomach, restraining the vodka from erupting out of my mouth. I let out a long sigh.

Puck probably had something to do with all of my pain and suffering. He's always out on the town, and he somehow persuades me to go out with him every single time. And every single time, I get fucked up. I've been Puck's "lesbro" for as long as I can remember. He's someone that I can always look to, or talk to when I need it, especially after the whole Brittany thing. We drink and we smoke, we chase after girls, and then we bang those same girls. Not simultaneously, of course, that would be fucking disgusting. We then reminisce our night over a 3-mile run and a large order of crappy diner food and coffee. It's something we bond over, even if it's really fucked up. We've built a relationship and I can't ask for a better friend. Though, Puck can be an ass sometimes. Like the time I found him and my at-the-time-girlfriend, Kate, banging like bunnies in spring on my living room sofa. I was pissed, like anyone would be in that situation, but Puck was high as a kite and didn't remember any of it. Kate was a total bitch too, so I got over it. Ever since, Puck's had my back and makes sure I don't date or fuck stupid women, and vice-versa.

I suddenly realize how quiet it had gotten. I didn't hear the door slam behind me, so I assume Brittany's still by the door.

"You gone yet?" I croak. She didn't respond. I turn around. Brittany's on the ground, with her back against the front door, and her head between her knees. I wasn't really sure why she's still in my apartment, let alone on the floor, but I focus back to my cigarette. It's slowly diminishing, and I frown. I don't have enough nicotine, or the lady balls, to go back in there quite yet.

_Brittany can wait just a little bit longer._ I tap the stick out, its butt falling to the streets below, and I light another one. I inhale, and then exhale, again and again, until it was a fraction of what it used to be. I could seriously smoke a whole pack in one sitting. Smoking makes your lungs all black, I know. It also kills, but that never stopped me from smoking. I was fifteen years-old. It was a bad choice, and I was stupid and reckless. But it was a dare, and I couldn't back down on one of those. My high school status was at stake, and I couldn't afford to not get laid that night. Besides, Jason Sterling was a fucking babe. And if I smoked one of his fags, I was indisputably in his circle of dimwitted morons he called friends. So, after the first puff freshman year, I couldn't stop. Bad habits die hard, I guess.

New York towers over me, and even in its early hours of the day, the city is busting. It never ceases to amaze me. The sun is rising, its rays just about to peak over the skyscrapers. I can hear cars honking, tires screeching, and the abundant amount of road-raging idiots yelling at one another; it was a new day.

The sight was stunning, and I almost forgot about Brittany. I crush my last cigarette on the brick wall beside me, and step back inside. I throw the pack back on the floor, shut the window and walk over to my ex-girlfriend. As I stumble past the kitchen, something rough scratches against the side of my under-boob. I flinch, and reach into the cup, pulling out the small bag of green. I chuckle instantly.

_This is why I love Puck._ I throw the stuff in what I assume to be my flour jar, but knowing me, there's probably nothing in there, so I don't really give a shit.

I look back at Brittany. I know I should be mad at her, and I am to some degree, but I can't help but feel guilty. She's in the same position as I saw her in thirty minutes ago. She hadn't moved a muscle; she looks exhausted. I try to find the right words, and I come up with the lamest excuse ever.

"I had a rough night, okay?" She doesn't respond, but looks up, her right cheek squished against her knees. Her eyes are squinty and watery, and I knew she had been crying again. So, I do the only thing I could do: I offer her my pinky.

It sounds weird, offering a girl my pinky, but for me and Brittany, it's something that just feels right; it always had been. It started out as being something to keep us together, a pact we made as kids. We'd link pinkies and promise that we'd be friends forever. Girlie kind of crap like that. During high school though, things obviously changed, and the whole pinky-holding wasn't so carefree. We fooled around a lot, and I knew it was confusing for Brittany. I played with her head, and it wasn't fair. But I did fall for her.

I came out my senior year, Brittany as my first girlfriend. I was skeptical at first, not knowing what people would say behind my back, or to my face. The pinky hold became sort of like our trademark. We wouldn't just do it because we were dating, we'd do it because we were Santana and Brittany. And it was only a matter of time before we realized we were meant to be together. It pissed off the bible-thumpers. And the sex was, of course, amazing.

Brittany now stares at my pinky. She doesn't take it, and instead, just looks up at me.

Exasperation leaves my lips, "what, B? What? You're not giving me anything. What's going on? Why are you here?" The words hang in the air, like they never reached her ears. And then the tears start to fall from her face again, and this time, I'm immediately at her side. I know that her coming here is not just about us. There has to be something more to her visit than me. I kneel down, grab her thighs, and lift them to my hips. Brittany then follows suit by wrapping her legs around my waist, and her arms around my neck. I place my lips to the side of her temple, whispering words of reassurance, while carrying her to the bed.

We go down together, Brittany clinging to my fucking shirt. I don't know what to do. Everything is happening way too fast, yet I continue to pet her hair and kiss her forehead, repetitively. But nothing seems to be slowing her aching sobs. So I finally decide, by straddling her hips, to take off her knee-high boots. I sneak a glance toward Brittany, as my hand gropes her boot to find its buckle, and I meet blue eyes. There's instant pain; so much that I can't pull away. Those deep, blue eyes are at their breaking point, and Brittany can't seem to keep them open. As the last boot leaves my hand and hits the floor with a thud, I try to keep Brittany's eyes glued to mine. She's falling back down though, and gives in to the warmth and the softness of my sheets. I adjust myself on Brittany and focus back on making her more comfortable. She's wearing black skinny jeans and a white, V-neck shirt. Brittany always made the simplest of things look extremely sexy.

_God, she's gorgeous. _I hesitate and glare at the outfit, contemplating if I should strip Brittany down or leave her the way she is.

I start to move away from her and head for the closet to grab some blankets. My first move makes me wish I was in the bathroom again. I completely forgot about my drunken self. Everything seems to be coming down all at once. The buzz from the cigarette had obviously died. I wobble, and my leg catches Brittany's thigh, and I fall beside her on my back. The vodka in my stomach churns, around and around, slowly making its way back up. I feel the urge to barf. The ceiling is a white, fuzzy blur and it swirls around my head. I try to focus on what I'm doing, but the spinning won't stop.

_Why and how are you still drunk?_ And then, Brittany's on top of me. I was too focused on my unsettling stomach to see her make her way on top. I'm startled, but I don't do anything about it. If I move, I'll vomit all over her. Tears are still streaming down her face as Brittany's hands dig beneath my tank, groping my abs. My hands try to pull her away, and I try to speak out of protest, but before I can do anything, Brittany catches my lips with hers. Time stops. Everything stops.

Brittany's lips are soft, apologetic even, and my heart breaks at the touch. She moves closer to me, her palms resting by my head. Our lips move slowly, both of us just enjoying the touch and the feel of each other; we've been deprived for far too long. Brittany's tears drip to my mouth, making me taste salt. I reach behind her and apply a gentle pressure to the small of her back. I then move my hands up and down her sides, and finally to the inside of her shirt. I kiss deeper into her mouth, my teeth biting hard on her lower-lip, not being able to control myself. She responds with just as much force. Everything seems to be falling out of place, and I don't know if that's a bad thing or a good thing, but I'm hoping it's the latter.

I find myself flipping her over, totally forgetting about the vodka, our lips unable to separate during the process. My hips bend down as Brittany's fingers etch the lining of my spanks; she pulls them down eagerly. I pull away from her mouth, my lips slowly moving down towards her jaw, her collarbone, and her easily accessible cleavage. Brittany's top comes off with ease. I kiss her all the way down, savoring her silky skin, nibbling here and there. Brittany lets out a moan.

"San," Brittany breathes in a sniff. I keep going, not stopping, because I know that this won't last forever. I know that this is not good, but I can't help but delve deeper into Brittany. I missed her. I miss her touch and her scent, the way that her body fits effortlessly with mine. And right now, everything is coming back to me; everything that we were and everything that we had.

Brittany grabs my hair, loosens it from its tie, and navigates me back to her lips. I unbuckle her belt, and fiddle with her zipper, Brittany lifting her waist off the bed as I jerk her jeans down and toss them to the floor. I break the kiss and move down her body again, leaving red and purple spots as I go. I notice her lucky, duck-emblazoned boy undies and chuckle into her belly button. I've seen these so many times, and of course she'd be wearing them today. She squeezes my black, panty-laced ass in a sexy attempt to shut me the fuck up. Her hands glide up my tank, pinching and rubbing my abs; they tear off my top. I moan onto Brittany, her hips bucking hard against mine. Nothing else seems to matter at the moment, but Brittany.

Our bodies are entirely intertwined, completely molded as one, and I was just about to go for gold, when the vodka crawls back up my throat. I suddenly feel nauseous, for like the fifth time since Brittany arrived, and I break away from her.

_You've got to be kidding me!_

"San?" Brittany was out of breath. I can't explain to her why I abruptly left her side and jumped off the bed like a gorilla. "Santana?" I bound for the bathroom, the chunky, yellow crap making its way back up. The toilet is in view and I've never been so happy to see it in my entire life. I curl up next to the round bowl, like it was my long, lost friend. I chuck up my dinner, which consisted of four cigarettes and a red bull. The taste is horrific. I'm waiting for the worst, pleading to God that she wouldn't follow me in here. And just then, Brittany kneels by my side.

"Go away, B." I don't think she made out what I said, as it was literally word vomit. I grumble in the toilet. Brittany rubs my back and pulls my hair into its previous pony. I just keep throwing up.

I've thrown up quite a few times during my lifetime, being only a 23-year-old. I got terrible food poisoning from this awful, grungy Chinese restaurant in downtown Brooklyn. God, it was awful. The broccoli beef just would not stop coming up. When I was eleven, my family and I all caught some sort of bug and we were all puking. My brother and I had to take turns barfing in the toilet, it was so bad. For my seventeenth birthday party, I blacked out for the first time. Downed a whole bottle of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum; I haven't drank it since.

_I'm never drinking again._

I take a deep breath and pray that the barf fest is over. I can't imagine anything else coming out of me, because I feel that I have been removed of all my internal organs. I take a deep breath again, and swallow, to my liking, a large amount of saliva. I roll my head from side to side, its sore muscles strained from leaning against the toilet. I wince. As if on cue, hands immediately start to rub the nape of my neck. I jump a little, completely unaware of Brittany behind me. I was too focused on the chunky, yellow crap to notice her soothing hands.

"Hi,"

"Hi." I try to smile, but I fail miserably. I then get up off the floor, sway a little, and lean into the wall. I close my eyes and try to focus on what's going to happen next. I head for the sink, and wash away the bile from my mouth. I feel Brittany's pinky intertwining with mine, and I allow her to lead me out of the bathroom. But right before we climb back into bed, for the first time tonight, my brain makes me do something I don't want to do, something I should have said from the beginning.

"Britt," I pull on her pinky.

She turns and smiles half-heartedly, "you okay?"

"I'm fine," she immediately frowns. She's probably thinking that I might puke again.

"No, really," I reassure her with a wiggle of my pinky. I take note that we're both almost, completely naked. It's distracting. I can't find the words to say.

_I need to do this. I have to do this. You can do this._

"Santana?" I realize I was staring at the floor. Again.

I make myself breathe. "I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do about this. I don't know what to do about anything," I look up at Brittany, and words just start to spew out of my mouth. "I'm tired, Britt. I'm tired and I'm angry. My life sucks. I have nothing to fucking live for. And right now, I can't…" I pause, trying to collect my thoughts. "I can't fuck up with you. Not again."

Brittany doesn't say anything. And again, we just stare into each other's eyes. And it hurts. Everything fucking hurts. My heart feels like it's being crushed by a large boulder; it's making it hard for me to breathe.

_God. Fuck. Say something. Please._

And finally, when I can't think of anything else to say, Brittany kisses me. It's everything and nothing. It's quick, yet it leaves me wanting more. It's amazing, yet it makes me want to pull away. Her lips are soft against mine, and I try to fight the tears that are already coming. My face slides down to Brittany's neck.

I'm not the one who's usually good with the whole 'feelings' thing. I just drown it out with alcohol and sex, and everything seems to turn out just fine. I don't cry, I don't let my walls down, and I certainly don't care about other people's feelings. It's probably not healthy, but it's what I do best. When it comes to Brittany though, it's different. She knows me so well, it's annoying. She can read between anything I throw at her. She knows when I'm sad, when I'm mad, when I tell a lie, and when I need to get laid. It's been like that for as long as I've known her. And here I am crying, not because my insides just exploded, but because Brittany is holding me, knowing exactly how I feel. I hate it.

I'm now crying in Brittany's cleavage; my cheeks had slid to the outlining of her bra. I start to collapse, my legs giving in to the heartache. Brittany moves our hips onto the mattress. She pulls me under the sheets and hugs me into an even tighter embrace. The tears are impossible to stop. No matter how hard I try, they keep pouring down my face and onto Brittany's neck. It's like a fucking waterfall. And Brittany just keeps rocking me, back and forth.

"Everything's going to be okay," Brittany whispers; as she sinks down to meet me. I'm clinging to Britt's back, my nails biting at the skin. She snakes her legs between my thighs and presses her forehead against mine. "Santana," she strokes my cheek with her right thumb. I shake my head, trying to fight the urge to look at her. I know she wants me to, but I keep fucking crying. And I don't want her to see me like this. I can't look at her. I just can't. And being the modest, most patient person she is, Brittany just presses closer to me, stroking my hair and every once in a while, kissing my forehead.

"Santana, shh, it's okay." I want to tell her that it won't. I want to tell her that we can't do this, that we shouldn't do this, and that it's not going to be okay. Not only are tears pouring down my fucking face, but everything inside me feels like it's turning into a fucking oblivion. It's then that I feel Brittany's eyes linger on my lips, and I know what's going to happen before it does. Brittany leans into me, the connection instantly wet. Brittany sucks on my lower lip, over and over again. She's trying to get my attention, for me to look at her, to talk to her, but I just keep crying.

_You're such a fucking pussy._ Brittany keeps on playing with my lips. I can feel them getting more swollen with every tug of Brittany's teeth, with every swipe of Brittany's tongue, and with every suck of Brittany's own red, luscious lips.

"Santana. Come. On. Look. At me." She kisses me through her words, and I can't help but feel like a fucking bitch. Here's this girl, who I've managed to fuck up everything with; leaving her behind and breaking her fucking heart. And yet she's still here, in my fucking arms. This is the girl that I'm head over heels for, who's half-naked in my bed, trying to get me to make out with her, to ease the pain. And what am I doing? Being a fucking coward.

I open my eyes to comforting blue ones. And just by looking into them, I feel better. Water's still streaming down my face, and Brittany just smiles into my brown, probably puffy, eyes. "Hi," she kisses me, a little bit deeper this time, as her fingers trickle against my side, pinching as she goes. I quiver at her touch, but that just makes Brittany inch closer to me.

Brittany keeps working my mouth, and it's starting to get to me. I know its Brittany's way of making me feel better, and she has no intention of going any further than we already have, but I want more. Brittany is a good kisser, and she knows it. She's always taken advantage of that, and she always seemed to enjoy kissing anyone she could get her hands on. So, I kiss her back, my tongue etching the inside of Brittany's mouth. She's caught off guard, yet she bites down on my lower lip, sucking on it frantically anyway. While her fingers tug at my hair, my arousal gets the best of me and I flip myself over her. My palms press on Brittany's abs, pinching them hard, as my right thigh digs into her center. Brittany pulls her legs apart, giving me better access, and then crosses her ankles on my lower back. I fucking love it when she does that. The feel of Brittany's heat is overwhelming, and again I can't control what I know I can't stop.

Brittany moans in my mouth, "San…. Santana, stop…. San." My hands head north, completely ignoring Brittany, and find her breasts. I knead them through her bra and push harder into her, taking full pleasure to the fact that her panties are soaked. I slowly ease my fingers underneath the double-d cups, feeling hot, silky, smooth skin. I take a pink, and now incredibly hard, nipple between my thumb and forefinger, and twist, pinch, and rub as hard and as fast as possible. My left hand goes down, and cups Brittany's hot sex. I ease my middle finger up and down her throbbing heat, repeating the process till the wetness seeps through Brittany's duck-blazoned panties.

Brittany moans, "Fuck…. Santana…." I know I hit the spot, as Brittany rarely swears. And right when I thought I had her, Brittany breaks our embrace and shoves me to the side, straddling me yet again. I keep forgetting how strikingly strong she is. I sit up to catch her lips, but she pushes my chest and I fall back on the bed. The shove wasn't intended to be mean, but it was hard enough to get me instantly turned on.

"Santana." Brittany is frazzled, her hair slick against her neck. She's panting. And I'm still, sort-of crying. I try for her mouth again, this time sitting all the way up, scooting her tighter to my body. She presses a finger to my lips, stopping me. I let her catch her breath. Brittany's legs then curl around me, her hands firmly set on my shoulders, and her eyes tightly shut. I lay back on my forearms, my tears slowly coming to a stop, as I'm trying to pull myself together. Pulling myself from something I know I won't get.

"We need to talk," Brittany runs a hand through her hair. I gulp back my tears, and just stare up at the ceiling. "I mean, like, we really need to talk." This is what I was afraid of. She wants to talk. She wants to talk about us. She wants to talk about how we're still extremely physically attracted to each other. She wants to talk about how we almost just had sex.

_Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck._

Her hands rest on my shoulders, their fingers lightly brushing my collarbone, patiently waiting for me to say something. The problem is I don't know what to say. I feel like I never know what to say anymore. When I don't respond, as I'm still staring at the ugly wall above me, Brittany leans in and kisses me. I let out a small groan when she pushes me back against the bed, and I allow her to rest her head on my shoulder.

"Santana," she mumbles into my neck. I can't help but feel guilty. This shouldn't have happened. Brittany walking through my apartment door and back into my life had definitely been something I wasn't expecting. She was something that I had left behind and I had told myself I wouldn't have to deal with anything 'Brittany' ever again. I broke up with her because I was a bad girlfriend, because I didn't want Brittany to endure any of my shit anymore. She wasn't happy. I didn't want to let her down. And I know we need to talk, but I just don't know what to say. I don't know what she'll say either, and that scares me. I just hope that whatever happens, Brittany will be happy. That's something I always wanted her to be. And for me, that's all that really matters.

A yawn escapes my mouth before I can respond. My head is heavy. It's probably the alcohol, and all the crying, and the sudden and unexpected feels of the day. Another drag of my breath makes Brittany chuckle. She looks up at me and smiles.

"Or we can talk later?"

I look down at her, and her deep, blue eyes seem to be saying something, but I'm too tired to make anything of it. So, I just nod. Sleep does sound really good right now. My bed feels ten times more comfortable, and it may be because of Brittany; her warmth is tremendously perfect. I let out a heavy sigh and turn toward the clock.

_Oh my god_. It's like seven in the morning. Brittany knocked on my door three hours ago. Weird how time flies when you're macking on your ex-girlfriend. As I continue to glare at the time, Brittany moves closer, and cuddles up to my backside. She stretches her arm across my stomach and intertwines her legs with mine. The contact sends shivers throughout my body. I'm so not used to Brittany being this close; the proximity is fucking killing me. If that's not intoxicating enough, the arousal from the previous position is still, sort-of lingering in the pit of my stomach. I don't think I can't, not touch her, or at least kiss her. She's way too kissable. Brittany has also been extremely touchy-feely, for as long as I've known her. So of course, Brittany would instigate the spooning. I mean, I love it when we spoon, but damn, I thought we were going to take this slow. I just want to turn around and get right to business. But I know I can't. We need to talk. I don't think I'll be able to sleep with her all up on me like this.

"Sweet dreams Santana." Brittany draws me away from my thoughts by kissing the back of my shoulder.

"Goodnight Brittany." I shut my eyes, praying to God that sleep will come easy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary: **She's important. She's always been important. And now she's back, and Santana has no idea what to do.

**Author's Note:** Guys! I'm so sorry it's taken so long to write this... I've been really busy with school and crap... Ugh...

But, here's part two! Hope you like it :) And there's a small "drug" reference, and a lot more swearing... So, if you'll get offended, don't read it!

* * *

**Nobody Said It Was Easy **

**Chapter Two:**

Sun shines through my window and onto my face, and it doesn't wake me up. Why? Because I'm already fucking wide awake. I've been nodding in and out of consciousness for the last couple of hours; I'm restless. I blame Brittany for everything. She's making sleep even more impossible than it usually is. I usually get myself drunk, to numb the aching feeling of loneliness, and then I fall asleep to wake up to no recollection of the previous nights' events. It works, but I'm obviously not used to this. It's unnerving and a little bit embarrassing, because Brittany's in my bed and I can't even fall fucking asleep. I sigh into my pillow.

_And not to mention we're like, half naked. That fucking helps._

I glance at the clock and see that it's 10:37 in the morning. I've been awake for far too long, and I definitely need to get some sleep before Monday arrives. I'm dreading work already. I turn to face Brittany, trying not to make too much noise in the process. She has a tight hold on me, and all I can do is smile. Memories of waking up late on lazy, Sunday mornings, watching re-runs of _Friends_ and eating copious amounts of junk-food flash behind my eyelids. I remember Brittany tends to cling onto things when she sleeps; she definitely likes to cuddle. Not to mention she's fucking adorable. Leave it to Brittany to be the cutest sleeper on the planet. Her arm is still wrapped around my waist, and her golden hair has fallen perfectly around her face, shielding her eyes from the early rising sun.

_God, she's gorgeous._

I watch as her body moves up and down with every breath she takes. I don't mean to be a creeper, but I've always loved watching Brittany sleep. She always looks so peaceful and elegant, something that I always lack. Most of the time, I look like a piece of shit, not to mention my inability to stay under the covers; I get way too hot. I reach out and trace my finger down her forehead, to the ridge of her nose, and then stopping at her lips. They're perfect. I lean in and kiss them. Brittany shuffles.

_Fuck. Don't wake up, don't wake up. _Brittany returns to her previous position, and I let out a heavy sigh. I kiss her one last time and close my eyes, praying for more sleep.

But the second I close my eyes, Brittany's already sucking on my neck, wide awake. I smile to myself, wrapping my arm around Brittany's lower back. I lean into her, purely out of habit. I kiss her forehead, purely out of habit. Brittany nips at my jaw and then licks her way down my chest, her tongue doing fucking work. I would say this is purely out of habit. My breathe hitches.

"Brittany, go to sleep," I mumble. I hear her chuckle, but she doesn't stop. I can't help myself from giggling along with her. It was fucking weird. Laughing with Brittany, especially in the position we're in, seems so natural, like I've been doing it forever. But knowing what we had, and what had happened, and the unbearable five years when we weren't together, this moment is unreal, and strangely domestic. It doesn't make any fucking sense.

Brittany keeps doing what she does best, and I allow her to. She's on top of me now, caressing my stomach like she won it as a prize at the fair. Her hips are bracketing mine; it's fucking sexy. She's looking at me with dark, lustful eyes and I know she's about to pounce. I'm getting way too hot.

"Are your trying to seduce me?" I inquire, with a high brow.

"Hmm, are you seducible?" Brittany smiles mischievously, and I laugh, whole-heartily. She presses her lips against mine; I melt into her touch. Brittany has total control of my lips, and I can't help but let her do whatever she fucking pleases.

"I thought we were going to sleep?" I ask, through tongue.

"We did. And now I'm awake." I pull away with a smile, and cup her face into my hands. She pouts. But it isn't just a pout, it's _the_ pout; the pout that I have seen so many times before. This pout was the reason why I always gave in to whatever Brittany wanted. It's a pout that is undoubtedly my kryptonite, yet it's a pout that I irrevocably fell in love with. I'm whipped to say the least.

"No. I am not falling for that. No fucking way." I chuckle and point at her lips; she curls them into a wide, playful smile.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

I snort, yet she wiggles her eyebrows, grabs my hands from her cheeks, and interlaces them with hers. She then pins them above my head, and continues to assault my mouth.

"Also. Aren't. We. Supposed. To talk. About this?" I puff between our tongues, my words barely audible over our heavy breathing.

"Yeah, I kind of gave up on that idea." I know she's teasing, but I can't help but think that maybe she doesn't want to talk. But then again, she's the one who brought it up last night. Hell, she's the one who got us into this fucking mess by knocking on my fucking door.

Brittany smiles and slings the sheets from our over-heated bodies, sending them flying over the bedside. The moment they hit the floor, Brittany is going at me again. I feel exposed, and somewhat violated. But god damn, she's fucking gorgeous. And god do I want her. And I wouldn't be surprised if she felt the same. I mean, why else would she be doing it? Morning sex is always amazing. But I know that we can't do this. Well, we easily could at the rate we're going, but it wouldn't be right. And we've gone through enough shit already, I don't think I could handle having sex with Brittany. It would just bring back so many memories, and so much heartache. I've already cried in front of her, and I've let all of my walls come down because of her; Santana Lopez is a fucking mess. I mean, I've stripped her down, kissed every inch of her, and now I'm going to fuck my ex-girlfriend senseless? As amazing as that sounds, then what? Tomorrow will come and go, and Brittany will leave again. Just like last time.

As thoughts roll around in my head, I slide my hands down to Brittany's hips, and flip her over. I then take advantage of my position and slow our steamy make-out session. Brittany doesn't get the memo, as she opens her legs, giving me full invitation rights to her…

"Brittany, wait." This time it's me who pushes her back down on the bed. She's taken aback by my sudden aggression. But Brittany's eyes seem to be thinking on a whole, different level than I am. Her eyes are a full shade darker, and she's biting on her lower lip with a devilish grin. I can't help but drool a little while I stare at her boobs, which have sort-of popped out of her bra during the switching of our positions. "Um." And again, I'm left speechless.

"Yes, Santana? You were saying something?" Brittany maneuvers her bra back to its proper place.

All thought processes vanish and I gape at the figure below me. Brittany has, undoubtedly, the most amazing body I have ever seen. And she knows it. It's obvious that the excruciatingly, long hours of dancing has paid off. She's been dancing since the age of three, or at least that's what her mom says. It's her everything. Dancing is Brittany's past, present, and future. Without it, she would be nothing. Not being able to dance is like not being able to breathe, as it's literally Brittany's life source. It keeps her sane, and it allows herself to get away from the world, from all of the hate, the anger, and the hurt. It's a ritual; to move to the beat, to the bump of the bass, and to just let her mind wonder with ease, to get lost in the music. Brittany dancing is probably the most beautiful thing to witness. She's fucking unbelievable.

There's a small buzz coming from my dresser, and it shakes me from my reverie.

"Um, hold that thought." Brittany giggles, knowing the effect she has on me.

I roll my eyes. _You fucking pansy._

The tanned, toned face of the Noah Puckerman appears on my caller-ID screen. I groan and reach for my cell, sliding his face up and pressing the green, talk button. I lean on my right elbow, Brittany's hair tickling the skin there, and look down at those deep, blue eyes. Her face is mere inches away from mine, and I gulp, audibly, at the closeness.

As I'm basking in Brittany's beauty, I totally forgot about the ass on the other line.

"Lopez? You there?"

"Puckerman. What a lovely surprise." My voice squeaks an octave higher than I planned.

"Wow, you sound cheery this morning, did you finally get laid?" I could practically see Puck's idiotic smirk pulling at his lips. My eyes immediately flash to Brittany, who's playing with the lace of my bra. My cheeks burn. Is it that noticeable? Do I sound that happy?

"Fuck you, Puck."

"Mm, I sure hope so." There's a slight trace of humor in his tone, and now I know for sure he's smirking on the other line. He's only teasing, and I know that, but if it was anyone else, he'd probably get bitch-slapped in the face or round-housed in the balls. This is Puckerman at his best; this is what I get for being best friends with the most inappropriate, most sexual man-whore known to Earth.

"Hah, funny. What do you want?"

"It's 11, and I'm hung-over. You know the drill, Lopez." I groan into the receiver. I really don't feel like running three fucking miles today. And I try to tell myself that it's not because of Brittany.

I groan into the receiver, "Ugh. Can we like pass on the whole exercising thing? I don't feel like doing a fucking marathon right now."

Laughter rings in my ears, and I hold the phone away, cringing.

"You don't feel too good, do you?" Puck continues to laugh. My eyes narrow and anger quakes throughout my core.

"What the fuck happened last night? I seriously have never been this fucked up, like ever. What the hell did you do?" Brittany slides her hands up my stomach, and cocks her head to the side, her brows furrowed. I look up and shake my head, giving her a slight pat on the thigh. I mouth, 'don't worry about it,' and give her a small smile. She narrows her eyes like she doesn't believe me and her stare becomes more intimidating by the second. I'm an open fucking book.

"What the hell did I do? I didn't do fucking shit, Santana. You're the one wanting the blow! And of course, being the gentleman I am, I obliged." I grind my teeth together and mentally slap myself.

_You're so fucking stupid! _That's why I feel like shit. I did coke last night. Great.

"Are you fucking serious? Why the hell did you let me do that?" I feel Brittany's concerned eyes on mine and I really wish Puck hadn't called. I don't want Brittany to think that I got into some sort of drug deal with some fucking street thugs. I'm not _that _bad-ass.

Drug use is a definite no-no when it comes to Brittany. She doesn't like them, but more importantly, she doesn't like me doing them. In high school, I smoked a lot of weed. Like, a lot. Puck's uncle grew some in his backyard, and would pass it out every time we'd have a party. For free, of course. The guy was a fucking legend and the stuff was incredible. Anyway, Brittany tried it one night, and because she was already drunk, she started stripping. But then the "stoned-out-of-her-mind" Brittany decided to go stark naked and jump into Karofsky's pool. It was fucking hilarious. All night, she kept saying, "Sanny, Sanny! I feel funny! Let's make out." That was the first night we hooked up. Of course, at that time, I wasn't out of the damn closet, but god, Brittany was so fucking good. And maybe it was the weed and the excessive amount of alcohol in our systems, but the next morning when I woke up to Brittany's naked body pressed against mine, we had massive headaches and small cases of vertigo. Being crossfaded was fucking tight, but man is it brutal in the morning. I swear I was still stoned.

Brittany told me that she'll never smoke weed ever again, because it made her even more stupid than she actually is. I yelled at her for this, because she's not stupid, she's fucking brilliant. And no one, not even Mary-Jane, can tell her otherwise. She said she felt like she was incoherent 95% of the time, even though it made all of her senses like ten times better, including the hot, steamy sex we had in Karofsky's parent's bed and the five pieces of Domino's pizza that we ate at two in the morning. But I guess good things arise from bad times, as Brittany and I started to have sex regularly, which then developed into me coming out and her becoming my girlfriend.

If she found out that I still smoke weed, the consequences won't be too bad, taking into consideration that Brittany's been baked before. And really, who gives a shit? Basically everyone does it, and it's practically legal. Now, if she found out that I did coke last night, she would fucking kill me. Or worse, she would never, ever speak to me again. And then that would lead me to die an insufferable death. So I guess, no matter what, if Brittany finds out, I'm dead fucking meat.

"I didn't make you do anything. You wanted to do it. You're alive, right? Besides, we had a fucking blast last night!"

"I would say the fucking same, but I don't remember fucking anything, Puckerman."

There's a long, awkward pause.

"Well, looks like someone had a bowl of bitch-flakes this morning. Got your panties in a knot?"

"Shut the fuck up. Look, I'll get dressed and meet you at Manny's in an hour or so. I'm just not fucking running." The thought of doing anything physical right now makes my head spin and my insides to churn. My stomach would probably give out; due to all of the up-chucking I've done in the last fucking six hours.

"Okay, but hurry the fuck up. Puckasaurus is hungry."

I groan, "Whatever."

"See you soon, sweet cheeks!" Puck hangs up before I can bitch at him. I roll my eyes and throw my phone over my shoulder, not giving a shit about where it lands.

Pale arms instantly drag me down. Brittany's lips find mine, and the conversation I just had is completely forgotten. Our lips move in perfect rhythm; I'm fucking elated. We're making out like horny, virgin teenagers. It's fucking amazing. I pull away from her lips with a loud smack, and hover over the beautiful face of one, Brittany S. Pierce.

"I have to go." I wipe away a lock of golden hair behind Brittany's ear.

"Is everything okay?" There's concern etched on her face. But there's that 'what-the-hell-did-you-do-last-night' expression as well. She knows something's up, and I can't help but feel fucking guilty. But why should I? I've been going out with Puck for years, and it's because of those outings that my life is a little bit better. It's something I've been doing to get over Brittany.

_And look how that fucking turned out_.

"Yeah, Puck just wants to grab some breakfast."

"Uh-huh." She narrows her eyes, and they bounce in-between mine, like they're trying to dig up some dirty, fucking secret.

"I'd totally invite you Britt, but the guy is disgusting when it comes to eating." I shiver, knowing that Puck likes his bacon and cheesy grits, with a side of Honey, the two-time slut of a waitress. Brittany doesn't say anything. She just keeps staring at me with those precarious, blue eyes.

"So, you're just going to leave me here?" Brittany's words aren't as harsh as she looks up through her dark lashes. Those big, puppy-like eyes and the ultimate pout seem to have changed the mood drastically. Fuck. Brittany and her damn eyes. I swear to God, those things will be the death of me.

I sigh, "I'm sorry, B. Help yourself to anything you need, okay? There's, uhh…" I pause. Well, no, there's really nothing here for Brittany to eat. There's bread and peanut butter, but I have no toaster. I have some Cocoa Puffs, but the milk is probably two to three weeks old. I guess you could say that I don't eat much. That and I can't cook if my life depended on it. "You want some coffee?" I sure fucking hope I have some damn coffee beans.

"I really don't want coffee."

"Um, well what do you want?" Brittany answers my question by licking her lips.

"I can think of a few things." I gulp, and it raises a giggle from Brittany. "I'm kidding, Santana." She smiles her smile; the smile that makes my insides all gooey and happy. I'm fucking ecstatic it's so perfect.

"Oh. Right." Brittany pecks me on the lips, and pulls away with a smirk.

"And you should definitely brush your teeth. Your breath is a little smelly, Sanny."

I roll my eyes and let out a small snort, "Gee, thanks." She chuckles, as she catches my lips again. And before I forget why I need to get out of bed, I roll off Brittany and make my way to the bathroom. Brittany slaps my ass, and gives me a seductive grin, and I all about trip over my own fucking feet. I turn bright red, and of course that makes Brittany laugh even harder. Her face falls onto the pillow, trying her best to muffle her giggles. It's kind of fucking adorable.

I try to collect myself as I stumble into the bathroom. I let out a horrified, muffled scream. The image that I see reflecting back at me is fucking frightening. I look like a complete wreck. Why the hell did Brittany ever want to get up on this last night? I'm disgusting. Dark circles are under my red, puffy eyes and I don't even want to mention my hair. What a fucking night. This one is definitely going down in the books.

I turn on the shower, undress, and hop under the scalding, hot stream. The water hits in all the right places. My muscles immediately begin to relax, my hangover beginning to finally fucking fade. I wash my hair, scrubbing the vile from my scalp and whatever else that lurks in those roots. It takes me twenty minutes to get out of the shower, towel-dry my body, blow-dry my hair, brush my teeth, and apply a light amount of make-up. I'm a speed demon when it comes to getting ready, but God would I love for some more sleep. I step out of the bathroom, in only just a towel, and head to my dresser by my bed. Brittany's typing away on her phone, so I quickly grab a fresh pair of panties and slip them on under my towel. God forbid that Brittany sees my vagina. After last night, I feel a little vulnerable, and it's fucking humiliating. I grab a red-laced bra, a NYU sweatshirt, and a pair of running shorts. I turn around and Brittany's on the bed, sitting crisscross-applesauce, grinning mischievously at me.

_Shit._

"What?"

Brittany smirks, mostly to herself, and looks back at her phone, "Nothing." Something heavy drops to the pit of my stomach. And I definitely can't blame the alcohol on this one. I head for the bathroom, as there's a limited amount of privacy in this apartment. It's the only secluded space; well, that and the hallway closet. There are literally no walls and no doors separating the living room, the kitchen, and my "so-called" bedroom, which is just a bed and a dresser shoved in the far corner of the flat. Open fucking season to anyone who pleases. But hey, it's cheaper than most, and I have a beautiful view of downtown Manhattan, so life is pretty fucking good. I didn't think that Brittany would be walking back into my life anytime soon, so having no doors was okay. I could walk around in barely anything and not give a fuck. But now that she's gawking at me with those ravenous eyes of hers, a door would be extremely superb. It's like she's trying to use x-ray vision, or her super ex-girlfriend powers to rip my towel off. It's fucking nerve-racking.

I change into my lazy, "I-don't give-a-fuck" outfit, and lace up my tennis shoes. I'm now sitting on the couch, the TV is on, and Brittany still has her eyes glued to her phone. Some stupid MTV reality show is playing, and I couldn't give a fuck about Snooki's unborn child or some idiot on Catfish who thought their true love was some sixty-year old creep. I still have about fifteen minutes before I have to meet Puck at Manny's. I want something to look forward to when I come back, if that's final closure with Brittany or a new found glory with Brittany. I sure fucking hope it's the latter. But then again, I don't know what I want anymore.

"Okay. So, um, I'll see you later?" I didn't know what else to say, so why not just get straight to the fucking point? I have no idea what's going to happen now that last night is over and it's the beginning of a new day. I don't know if Brittany is going to stay, or if she wants to talk, or if she's going to leave and completely forgot about everything that's happened. I have no fucking clue. I never know what Brittany's thinking, and I wish I had the ability to read people's feelings and motives like her. It could definitely come in fucking handy right about now. The suspense is killing me. I want to talk, I want to understand the unexpected visit of my ex-girlfriend, but I also don't want to open up to the heartache that's our relationship. It'll re-open wounds that I've long lost forgotten due to copious amounts of alcohol and nights of meaningless sex. I'm just waiting for the salt to be poured into the open wound.

Brittany bites on her lower lip, as if it'll give her the answer she needs, "If that's okay with you? We still need to talk, and I really don't have anything important to do today." Her brow furrows, and the look on her face is fused with both hope and fear. It's scaring the crap out of me. If Brittany doesn't know what to think, then we're both fucked.

"Yeah, I was, uh hoping you'd stay. Breakfast will only take about an hour or so."

_As long as Puck shuts his damn, fucking mouth._

Brittany smiles, "Good. Text me when you're on your way home." My heart breaks at her words. She said home, like home is her, like home is where she'll be, like home will never leave me. That's so fucking domestic, but I really don't care. Brittany has always been my home, and right now, I don't think anything's going to change that.

"Uh, I don't have your number." If I told anyone else, they'd believe me, but a part of me thinks that she knows that I actually have her number. Which I do, but I don't want to make it seem like I've kept it all this time. Or that I thought about her every single day, or that I thought about calling her every lonely night. That would make me a fucking pussy. But I can't deny the fact that Brittany knows me. She knows every hidden message in everything I say, and she knows every feeling I keep in my head. And now that I've lied, I don't know what to say. I feel like I never know what to say to her anymore. It's like she's leaving me breathless every time she talks, or walks, or smiles, or anything that's as simple and as beautiful as Brittany.

"Santana." I could barely make out my name, as Brittany quietly chuckles to herself and looks down at her phone. She presses something, and holds it against her ear.

I'm about to speak, or mumble something fucking stupid, when my phone vibrates. I pull it from my pocket and glance at the screen. My breathe catches in my throat, and my heart nearly jumps out of my chest. A picture of Brittany stares back at me. She's lying on a blue-sleeved pillow, my pillow; her bright, blonde hair encircling around her angelic face. I know this picture because I took it. It was in this very same apartment, about five years ago, when we first moved in together, and right before we broke up. I woke up before her, and the early morning sun was just peaking over the horizon; its rays producing a halo around Brittany's perfect complexion. She had just opened her eyes, a small smile painted on her lips, and I just had to take a picture of the stunning scene in front of me. It was the morning when I first told her that I truly loved her; that I was in love with her and always will.

Finally possessing enough courage, I press the green, talk button and look to Brittany across the room.

She's smiling at me knowingly, "We both know that you've kept my number." I see her lips move, but I can't comprehend anything she's saying, or the fact that the Brittany sitting ten feet away from me is the same Brittany whose melodious voice rings in my ear. My heart has finally imploded; it's beating incredibly fast, its rhythm off-beat and shaking my entire core. I can't breathe, yet I'm pretty sure that I'm having a heart attack. And all I can do is fucking smile. Of course she kept my number. Of course she knew that I kept her number, because maybe, just maybe, she's feeling the same thing I'm feeling. That maybe she's just as lost as I am, that without her, there's nothing to live for. That she's everything that's good in this miserable world, that without her, I'm fucking nothing.

I bashfully smile, "And we both know that you've kept mine." Brittany doesn't bother to respond, and doesn't skip a heart-beat as she bounds off the bed and flings her arms around my neck. I stumble backwards, but I can't help but enjoy the fucking feeling I get when she makes the sudden leap of faith.

"I've missed you," Brittany mumbles into my neck, her hot breath sending tingles down my spine. I hold onto her like my whole life depended on it, taking in everything that's Brittany. She's my anchor; she keeps me grounded, she keeps me steady. And right now, I'm pretty sure Brittany's never let go of me. I'm fucking breaking at the thought. Everything that's happened makes so much sense. Brittany misses me, she wants me back, and she's here to do just that.

"God Brittany, I've missed you too." We sway on the spot, both of us not wanting to let go. This moment is fucking perfect. I don't know how many times I've already said that, but it's just too fucking perfect to not say it over and over again. This is something that we've wanted for a very long time, something that we've needed. I grab Brittany's arms from around my neck and thread my fingers through hers. Brittany's crying, but I know that they're happy tears; tears of fucking joy. She moves closer, and because I can't wait any fucking longer, I meet her half way. This kiss is, without a doubt the most wonderful fucking thing on this planet. Our lips mold together perfectly; Brittany knows how to move mine, and I know how to move hers. If there was a competition of synchronized kissing, Brittany and I would win four fucking golden medals.

Brittany tries to pull away, but I reach back up and catch her lips again. I'm fucking persistent and I've been deprived for far too long to just stop. Why wouldn't I want to keep kissing the hell out of her? The kissing is getting a little bit difficult though; due to the small sniffs and puffs of air Brittany's trying to catch in-between her blubbering breaths. I reluctantly pull back and let her breathe. She takes in a heavy intake of air, along with a little chuckle, and exhales it back out, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. She kisses me one more time; it's short and sweet, and I must say, tremendously perfect.

"You should go. Puck's waiting for you." Brittany's words are filled with remorse, and I'm not quite sure why. But I do know that the ass that I call a friend is such a fucking cock-blocker.

"Fuck, Puck. He can go one day without me. He's a big boy." I cup Brittany's face in my hands, wiping her tears away with my thumbs, and snag a quick peck.

"I know, but you had plans before, well, me. I don't want to interfere."

"I wouldn't even call them plans, Britt. We see each other practically every night."

"You should still go, though." She twirls her fingers through the small hairs at the nape of my neck.

"But I want to stay here with you." The words fall from my mouth, and as soon as I say them, I mentally punch myself. I sound like a kid who's scared of the fucking dark. I sound like my Aunt Jesse is in the fucking hospital and could die any second. I sound like I won't ever see Brittany ever again. I'm getting ahead of myself. But this is fucking it though, isn't it? This is where Brittany and I rekindle our relationship. And I really don't give a shit about Puck and his stupid hotcakes.

Brittany giggles, "I won't leave. I promise." I let out a heavy sigh, and press my forehead to her collarbone. "Besides, we still need to talk."

I glance up into blue eyes, and I see sparkles. Brittany's eyes are fucking dazzling, and I can't help but smile. And it feels so fucking good. I think I've smiled more today than I have ever in the last five years. Brittany always makes me smile. I nod a little and give Brittany a kiss to her lips, then to both cheeks before turning toward the door.

"And Santana?"

I look over my shoulder, "Yeah?"

"Call me." She cocks her head to the side, looking up at me through her dark lashes.

I smile, "Definitely."

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**Author's Note: **It's nothing too exciting... But I hope y'all liked it :)

And something big is coming up... I have an idea in mind...

REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW! Please, I would love to hear your thoughts :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary: **She's important. She's always been important. And now she's back, and Santana has no idea what to do.

**Author's Note:** Wow... It's been awhile since I've updated this story... I've been really busy with... Life... So, so sorry! But please REVIEW!

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**Nobody Said It Was Easy **

**Chapter Three:**

The heavy, framed door bangs behind me, and I skip down the hallway. I'm so fucking giddy right now. I could just scream at the top of my fucking lungs, I'm so happy. And as I enter the elevator and slowly descend, all I can think about is Brittany. And I'm trying my best to refrain from rushing back to my room and jumping the hell out of her. And I'm really hoping breakfast with Puck will be quick, so I can do whatever the fuck I want with her when I get back. Well, we have to talk first. But didn't we already confess our feelings for each other? She said she misses me, and that I missed her. Is that not enough? Knowing Brittany, I'm going to have to talk about everything that's been going on for the past five years. I'm going to have to tell her that I've been miserable, that nothing has been good without her. I'm going to have to spill some fucking beans. And now that I'm thinking about it, I actually really want to know why Brittany chose this time, this moment, to finally admit that she misses me too. Why did it take her five years? I'm actually really fucking curious. And the more I think about it, the more I actually want to know.

I walk out into the bright early sun, a huge grin plastered on my face. The doorman smiles, and surprisingly enough, I smile back. This is a new fucking day, and a great one at that.

New York towers over me, and I already feel wide awake.

_Who needs coffee when you have a gorgeous blonde to wake up to? _

It's a nice change, and God does it feel so fucking good. I stroll down my apartment steps, and wave down a yellow cab.

I slide onto the ripped, leather seat. "Fifth and Charles. Make it snappy." I'm anxious as fuck.

"Sure thing." I do a double-take at the kid behind the wheel. He's no older than I am, and he certainly doesn't seem like he should be driving a taxi. He looks a lot like a hippie Jesus, his dread locks whipping to the side of his face every time he looks over his fucking shoulder. It's such an oxymoron that I suppress a chuckle. His taxi smells like he just smoked a fat-ass blunt too; and it's so hazy, it looks like I'm _in_ cloud fucking nine. I'm probably already stoned as fuck.

I cough a little bit, and wave my left hand, back and forth, "God, are you like, stoned? Because if you are, and we crash and I die, I'm suing your head of hair you call Jerusalem."

"My naturopath said that weed helps clear my head and allows me to focus on driving." His hazel eyes are glazed over when I look up to the rearview mirror; they're squinty and red as they bounce across the dash.

"Whatever, Jesus."

"It's Joe, actually."

"Just focus on the damn road."

"Sure thing." I roll my eyes. This guy needs to get fucking laid. "You going to Manny's?"

The little, run-down diner is the only thing that's actually interesting on the corner of fifth and Charles, so I assumed he'd know where I'm heading. Though, I'm surprised he figured that out with all the fucking THC in his system. I guess he hasn't lost too many brain cells; not yet at least. "Uh, yeah, what's it to you?"

"They have awesome hash-browns, man." His response was immediate, and I can tell that he has the obvious fucking munchies. I look to the front, and I can practically see him drooling on his steering wheel.

"Right you are, Jesus."

"It's Joe."

"I really don't care." He doesn't respond and comes to a stop at a red light.

"Have any plans this afternoon, besides going to Manny's?" I have no idea why he's trying to make small talk, or how he's able to by how fucking high he probably is.

"Uh, no, not really."

_Except kissing the shit out of Brittany._

"Well, if you have time tonight, my buddy's playing at Down South, the bar on fourth and Hanes. Ever been?" His eyes flash to mine. I can't tell if he's trying to hit on me, or just trying to be nice. It's a little flattering, but really? This guy does not know how to shut the fuck up. I'm guessing it's the weed talking.

"Yeah. _My _buddy owns the place." He turns around, and I spot the nose ring in his left nostril, and the dark tattoo on the side of his neck.

"Wait, you know Sam?" I close my eyes and lean my head against the cool window. This guy is seriously giving me a mother-fucking headache.

Sam Evans, the Justin Bieber look-a-like, the kid with a mouth as big as Jupiter, flashes against my eyelids, and I can't help but suppress a smile. He's definitely a buddy of mine, and I love the guy to death. Puck introduced us in college a couple years back, and ever since that night, the three of us have been inseparable. And while yes, Sam had tried to hit on me multiple times, he was pleasantly surprised and some-what relieved when I told him I was gay. He clapped me on the back and said, "Dude, thank fucking God. I thought I'd have to impress you all night!" He's a fucking dork, but he's like the brother I never had and I don't think I could ask for anyone better; no one can take his place. And I hate to fucking say this, but if I were straight, Sam would be the perfect fucking guy. Any girl would be lucky enough to have him.

I haven't seen him in a while though, as he's pretty busy with running the bar. It's been more than a couple of years. Down South is owned by the Evans family, and when Sam's dad had finally retired, he gave Sam full responsibility. So now he manages the entire fucking thing. I'm fucking proud of him, because he's been working his ass off for years. He has a great passion for music, and drinking I might add, and this bar scene is the perfect place for Sam. He's fucking stoked. So, as Joe's jaw drops to the middle console, I just grin back.

"Yes. He's a very good friend of mine."

"Wow. That's cool, man." The light turns green, and he revs the engine, the cab jutting forward.

"What time is the show tonight?"

"It's at seven. You coming?"

"Yeah, maybe. I haven't seen Sam in a while, and I could go for a night out."

"Well, the band's legit. They're totally worth your time."

"Sounds fun, Jesus."

He smiles, finally understanding that I'm just fucking with him. "Cool. Maybe I'll see you there." Joe turns down Fifth, and something vibrates in my tits. I reach in my shirt, and pull my phone from inside my bra. I roll my eyes. Puck's calling.

_Puck needs to hold his fucking panties._

"What, Puck?"

"You almost here? Honey's giving me the maple eyes, and the Puck-cake needs his syrup."

"First of all, that's fucking disgusting. And yes, I'm pulling up right now."

The sign of Manny's is perched on the roof of the diner, small, twinkling, gold lights surround each large, red letter; it flashes passersby with the attempt to lure them in for a meal. It's fucking distracting. I wouldn't be surprised if people got into accidents because of it.

I hang up on Puck, and turn to Joe, "Thanks Jesus. I guess you're kind of cool."

_What the fuck? Did I just compliment someone?_

"You too, uh…"

"Santana." I hold out my hand, because why the fuck not? It's not every day you bump into a fucking taxi driver who smokes fucking weed.

"Nice. I'll see you tonight?" He looks hopeful. Maybe I should mention that I'm fucking gay.

"Yeah, Jesus, maybe." I give him a twenty, and he smiles a toothy smile. I pull open the passenger door and climb out. Joe honks and waves before turning back into traffic.

_What a nice fucking dude._

I then turn to Manny's. My stomach grumbles, and I'm so fucking ready to eat.

As I enter the diner, the bell above the door dings, and I immediately spot Puck in the corner booth. Honey, the daughter of Manny, and the only waitress in this fucking joint, is leaning against the table; her boobs are literally falling out of her shirt and Puck keeps licking his lips. I think I just fucking threw up in my mouth.

"And, I was like, why do you need to put that on, when it's already in there?"

_Wanky._

"I completely understand, baby." Puck then catches my eye, and gives me one of his man nods. "What's up Lopez? You ready to dine and grind?" Honey giggles and flips her hair, offering a seductive glance towards Puck.

_God, get a fucking room._

I don't respond and just slide into the booth opposite Puck, picking up a menu. Honey fires an intended glare in my direction, but really she looks damn right fucking constipated. I'm not quite sure what goes on in that ginger head of hers. I'm pretty sure it's fucking nothing.

_Dumb fucking bimbo, indeed._

"I'll be back to take your orders shortly."

"Can't wait." I offer her a cold smile. Honey hesitates, like she's not sure if she should say anything or not, and then stalks back to the kitchen.

Puck turns to me, a frown imminent on his face, "Really Santana? Don't be a bitch." He takes a sip of his crappy cup of coffee and sinks farther into the booth.

"Don't be a dick." I counter, as I flip through the menu, contemplating whether I want pancakes or French toast.

"She's a nice girl, okay? Don't fuck this up for me."

"Fuck what up for you?"

"You know what I mean." He looks at me knowingly.

Honey comes back before I can respond, holding a pen and a small notepad. "You guys ready to order?"

"Yeah, baby. I'll get two eggs, over easy, four slices of bacon, the pancakes, and a side of hash-browns," Puck gives Honey a sweet smile, along with a little wiggle of his eyebrows. She bashes her eyelashes, and then giggles obnoxiously for like five fucking minutes, before turning to me.

"I'll get the French toast, and some coffee would be nice." Honey nods and saunters off.

I roll my eyes, "Since when do you care about the girls you want to fuck?"

"Since when do you care about what I care about?"

"Nice come back," I snort, "real smooth." I cross my arms over my chest, and because I don't have my fucking coffee yet, I take a sip of water. Puck just glances down at the marbled table, his grasp on his cup of coffee tight; his face is blood red.

"Shut up, Lopez."

Honey comes back with our food and finally my fucking coffee. We eat in silence, just enjoying the food as it settles nicely in our hung-over stomachs. I just finished one of my slices, when Puck speaks. He's already gobbled down all of his fucking breakfast. "So what you doing tonight? Ready for round two?"

I don't know if I should tell Puck about Brittany or not. I was a wreck when she left, and he had to deal with my whimpering, alcohol-induced self for five years. If I tell him, I don't know if he'll support my decision in trying to get her back, or if getting back together with her is a good idea. He knows how much she means to me, and why I broke it off, yet a part of me feels like he won't like it. He'll probably think I'm not ready, or that because I miss her so much, I'm willing to just jump back into her fucking arms. I don't know how he'll react. He's my best fucking friend, and I tell him fucking everything. And I do want to go out. But I want to go out with Brittany. I can't just leave her while I go fuck off with Puck. That would be fucking rude. And because Joe mentioned Down South, the thought of seeing Sam is making wanting to go out even more fucking exciting.

So, with another bite of French toast I shrug, "Sure, sounds fun."

"Awesome. Jake's thinking about Starlight tonight? What do you think?"

"Um, actually, I was thinking Down South. Go see Sam?" I'm pretty sure Puck hasn't seen Sam since we all went to Puck's uncle's cabin in California a couple of summer's ago. He'll be fucking elated.

And just as I thought about it, Puck's face lightens up, his pearly whites reflecting off the window. He has some left-over bacon stuck between his two front teeth, but I don't say anything.

_He's probably saving it for later._

"Dude I haven't seen Sam in forever! Let's do it!" Puck pulls out his phone and starts tapping away. He looks so fucking stoked, I can't help but smile. Sam and Puck are literally like brothers from other fucking mothers. I'm surprised they don't hang out like 24/7.

"Cool. And, uh…"

_Tell him about Brittany, or not tell him about Brittany?_

I really want her to come. She'll be happy to see Puck. It'll be like a little fucking reunion.

Puck sets his cell down on the table and looks up at me, "What?"

I put down my fork and sink down into the booth, not looking Puck in the eye. "I need to tell you something. But you need to not flip your shit, okay?"

"Uh, you okay?" Puck looks scared; like he just found out he's become another baby's daddy.

"Yeah. Well sort of. Uh." I take long chug of my coffee, trying to prepare myself for one of Puck's lady lectures.

_Here goes fucking nothing._

"Brittanycameoverlastnightandshe'satmyplaceandIwan thertocomewithus." It's word vomit, and I know Puck didn't catch any of it, so I'm going to have to say it fucking again. But God, I don't know how.

"Woah, woah Satan. What?" I ignore the nickname.

I take the biggest breathe, "Brittany. She came over last night. Well, this morning actually. And we kind of kissed, and stuff. She spent the night. And she's over there now. And we kind of made up, but I don't really know. But if we're going out tonight, I want her to come with us. I don't want to leave her. Again." I let it all out, take in another deep breath, and settle on staring at my plate of food. I'm all of a sudden not hungry anymore. I don't look at Puck's face, afraid of something that I know is coming.

There's silence, and I know Puck's trying to put everything together. Trying to make sense of what actually came out of my mouth. I never mention Brittany, ever. And because I don't, Puck doesn't either. It's a topic we try to ignore, try to stray away from because we both know it'll only hurt more. But now that Brittany's back into the equation, she's all I'm thinking about. And Puck needs to know. I can't keep things from him, especially if that thing is Brittany suddenly appearing at my doorstep, walking back into my fucking life. And I just want to know what he thinks. I want to know his fucking opinion, because I really don't know what to think about all this shit.

Puck sits up straighter, a quizzical look on his face, like he's trying to make out something that's impossible to figure out; like a fucking math problem. I'm waiting, and waiting, holding on to the edge of the table, my knuckles white. And waiting. Waiting for whatever he has to say.

"Santana…" His voice is soft, reassuring, and I can't tell if that's a good thing or a bad thing. Puck leans into the table. I can feel his eyes burning a hole through my fucking chest. "Santana. Look at me."

This is what I can't handle. Besides Brittany being the one who can read me like an open fucking book, Puck's pretty good at guessing. He's good at knowing how I'm feeling, but he never pokes it out of me like Brittany. He asks, but I usually make him regret it by punching him in the arm or kicking him in the balls. That's always a good distraction for him to forget entirely what I'm feeling and drop the damn subject. But right now, I don't make a move to kick his ass, because I want him to know. I want him to know that I want Brittany. I want him to know that hopefully it's okay. That I'm okay. Hopefully.

I look up and meet dark, brown eyes, and I think I've gone blind. I can't believe what I'm seeing. They're not condescending or wearisome, they don't look sad or helpless, yet they're actually bright, sparkling, and full of hope. He's actually fucking smiling. I'm taken aback, because that's not what I was expecting. Where's the frown, the uncertainty, the 'what-the-hell-are-you-doing' look? I don't see it. All I see is his big, Jewish glow. And my heart fucking leaps.

_What the fuck?_

"I know." My heart stops. I'm having another heart-attack, or a fucking stroke, I'm sure of it.

"What?" I don't understand what he's saying. I don't understand why he's saying what he's saying.

"She called me last week," he lets out a little chuckle, "she actually texted me this morning."

_What the fuck did he just say?_

"What?" I let out an awkward, some-what loud, squeak.

"She called me when she got in town last week. She told me she wanted to see me, so we met up for coffee. And we talked." He shrugs his shoulders, that damn, fucking smile still plastered on his face.

"I - I don't -"

"I told her to go to you." He reaches for my hand, and before I know it, tears are falling down my cheeks. I try to wipe them away, but every time I do, they're just replaced by even more. Puck's already by my side though, as he slid into my booth, and he's holding me, hugging me. His embrace is warm, like a fucking bear, like the fucking best friend he is. But he's never done this, he's never showed affection. And yeah, I usually don't allow it, but right now, it's everything I need. I'm so fortunate to have him, so I just allow him to hold me. But God damn, this is fucking embarrassing.

"Santana. It's okay. She came back." Puck squeezes me harder, and presses a soft kiss to my hair, "She's here now… Isn't that what you want?" He pulls me away from his chest, and looks straight at me. His eyes penetrate my very, fucking soul. I look at them nonetheless, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

"I don't - I don't understand. Why - Why did she -"

I don't know what to think anymore. I don't know what I want. I don't know if Brittany is the thing that I want. Well, no, fuck. Yes, of course I want her. But how has it come to this? Yesterday, I was unhappy. I didn't like my life. I didn't like where it was going. But today? Today, everything changed. Everything _is_ changing. But I don't know if that's for the better, or if it will all go to shit. The thought of Brittany is making me feel a little uneasy; but at the same time, it's making me feel happier, brighter, and somehow even better than I was before. Fuck, she has a huge effect on me, but I don't even know why. And I don't think she has a clue either. She's just as delirious as to how she makes me feel.

I cry harder into Puck's shoulder, not giving a fuck that people have been gradually going in and out of the diner, looking at us with quizzical expressions on their fucking faces. Or that Honey is staring at me incredulously from the front-desk or that I've been crying in Puck's arms for more than seven minutes. So much for fucking breakfast. I barely even touched my French toast.

Puck shuffles and gets more situated, so he's sitting flat on his ass, his arm raked over the booth, cramming me into the corner. When he speaks, he keeps his voice soft and whisper-like. "Santana." I shake my head, wiping the tears from my eyes, but look up to Puck nonetheless. His face is sincere, and for the first time ever, I see a sparkle in his eye that doesn't involve him getting fucking laid. "I think you need to go back to your place and talk with your girl." He smiles, and to my astonishment, kisses me on my left cheek, and then to the right. It's just a peck and I would usually punch him or kick him in the balls, but it makes my heart break even more, because he actually fucking cares.

He waves down Honey, who immediately rushes to the table, dropping the tab with an apologetic smile and a nod of her head. I'd offer her one, but I'm too busy trying to pull my shit together. Puck offers her a small smile, pulls out a twenty dollar bill, and slides out of the booth. He offers out his hand, "You coming or what Lopez?"

I roll my eyes and let out a little chuckle, taking Puck's hand. We leave the diner, and I can't help but think that breakfast was kind of pointless. I came here thinking that I would have to explain why Brittany is in my apartment and somehow stumbled back into my life. I was expecting a lecture from Puck, saying that I'm not ready for whatever this is and that I'll only get hurt in the end. But what fucking happens? Puck knows about Brittany. He knows that she's back. He knows that she's back for me. It's kind of a little disheartening that he knows more about Brittany's sudden appearance than I do, but I'm going to take his word for it. If he's wrong, then I'm totally kicking his ass to the moon and fucking back.

As we walk outside, New York is busting, and the skies are surprisingly clear. Puck walks to the street and whistles a cab over, talking to the driver through the window. I'm still standing, quite awkwardly I might add, by the diner's entrance. My head is spinning; my brain trying to file through all of my thoughts, trying to organize them bit by bit, trying to find one that can help me figure out what to do. But they're still scrambled. I don't know what to do when I get back to my place, or how I'm going to confront Brittany about the Puck thing. My life is just getting more and more fucked up.

_Lend me a fucking hand, Jesus._

Puck clambers over and smiles his dim-witted smile that seems to charm the pants off of women. "I got you a cab, paid him and everything" he hitches a thumb over his shoulder, "so I'm going to leave you to it."

I look at him, confused. "You're not coming with me?"

"Nah. I got to finish my post-hangover run." He smiles that fucking smile. "And you need to go get to Brittany." He wiggles his eyebrows, and I immediately regret going out to breakfast with him.

"I'm not going to fucking sleep with her, you pig." I punch him on the arm at the same time I mentally punch myself. I totally almost slept with Brittany last night. On a few occasions. But Puck doesn't need to know that, as it's none of his fucking business. And now that I know what's going on, sex is not really an option. Fucking Brittany senselessly is not going to fix this, whatever that might be. I need to know why she's back, why she went to Puck, and why it took her five fucking years.

"So, Sam hasn't texted me back yet, but tonight will be stellar!" Puck fist-pumps the sky, purses his lips, and attempts at nodding like a gangster. He fails fucking miserably. I swear that guy is as white as Betty White.

I nod and smile a small smile, not really caring about tonight. I'm more worried about what's going to happen in the next couple of hours. Where it will just be me and Brittany. In my apartment. Talking. Fucking shit, this is going to be hell.

But no, we need to do this. If I really want Brittany back, which I most certainly fucking do, we have to talk.

Puck notices my skepticism and puts a hand on my shoulder. "Dude, Santana. It's okay. It'll all work out." He slaps me on the cheek teasingly, and I'm about to punch him, but he's already jogging away in the opposite direction. "Go get her Lopez!"

I glare at his departing figure and pray that he fucking trips. I head for the cab, kind of already feeling a little uneasy, and slide into the backseat. It's not until the taxi pulls away from the curb that I notice Joe is smiling up at me from the rear-view mirror. I roll my eyes. "You stalking me, Jesus?"

Joe lets out a small chuckle, looking over his shoulder for oncoming traffic. "It's fate, man."

"Oh yeah? That sounds fucking splendid." I reach into my shirt and pull my phone from my bra. I scroll down my contacts and come to Brittany's. Her name, which is as simple as any name, makes my heart beat uncontrollably. It's just a fucking name, and I can already feel the sweat dripping down my forehead from nervousness. Or maybe it's anxiousness. I really don't know anything anymore. I slowly dial her number and hold the phone up to my ear, waiting for the angelic voice to answer. It rings and it rings. But she doesn't pick up. It goes straight to voicemail.

_"Hi! This is Brittany! Leave me message!" _

I hang up before the beep, and I begin to question fucking everything. Why is she not picking up her fucking phone? Did she fucking leave? Did she finally come to the conclusion that she doesn't want me? That this was a bad fucking idea? I'm freaking the fuck out, and it obviously shows, as I can see Joe's curious, overly-glazed eyes gazing at me.

"You okay Santana? You look like your dog just died, man."

"I'm fine," I hiss. I glance down at my phone and dial again, hoping to fucking God that Brittany will pick up this time.

_"Hi! This is Brittany! Leave me a message!"_

_ "Hi! This is Brittany! Leave me a message!"_

By this point, I'm definitely flipping my shit. My palms start to sweat, and my head starts to spin. I drop my phone to the seat next to me and gaze out of my window. Why is it, that the one time I need, that I _want_ to get ahold of Brittany, that I _want_ to hear her voice, she doesn't pick up her fucking phone. I just hope she hasn't decided to leave again. I hope that she didn't realize that this was a mistake. Or maybe she was just fucking with me? I frown at my own thoughts, and the some-what truth they may actually hold. Would Brittany do that? Would Brittany break my heart, because I broke hers five years ago?

_Holy shit._

My thoughts run dry when Joe pulls up to a curb and puts his cab in park. I avert my eyes to my apartment building; it seems bigger and a lot more intimidating when I had left it earlier this morning. It has a gloomier glow, and my stomach flips at the thought that Brittany may not be inside.

"Alright, Santana. You going to get out my cab or what, man?" I jump, startled at the unexpected voice. I turn to Joe, who has turned around and has an arm draped around the passenger seat, a small smile on his face. I notice his eyes are a dark shade of green, though they're squinty and tinged with red. He's probably high as a fucking kite right now. Wouldn't fucking surprise me. He has a few freckles on his face, and if it weren't for the dreads and the Jesus-look-a-like thing going on, he could actually have some potential. I wonder if he has a stoner girlfriend, who gets just as high as he does, who works as a receptionist. That would be way too fucking funny.

"Yeah, sorry. I'll, uh. Go." I unbuckle my seatbelt and head out of the cab. The afternoon sun hits my face, and I mentally prepare myself for what's to come, for what awaits me. I climb to my feet, closing the door behind me, and head for the main doors.

"So, I'll see you later tonight, ya?" Joe shouts after me, and I turn to see him hanging out of his driver's seat window, a large, toothy grin painted on his face.

I shrug and shout back, "Guess you'll have to wait and see!" I wave and Joe nods, throwing me a peace sign, before driving off into the busy streets of New York. I chuckle to myself, and turn back to the towering building in front of me. I take an audible gulp and force my legs to start walking to the entrance. They're definitely fucking shaking. I give the doorman a stern nod, and pull open the heavy, French doors. I take a step toward the staircase, not bothering to look at the line of elevators in the lobby, hoping it will give me more time to think about what to say to Brittany. And to think about what happened with Puck at breakfast, and the fact that Brittany won't pick up her fucking phone. My mind is racing, and I just count the steps till I reach my apartment door. Till I reach Brittany.

I take the last step, and cross over the threshold. I freeze. I look down the long, some-what narrow, and oddly eerie hallway, and spot my apartment door. I take a deep breathe, and head toward it, my eyes glued to the small _515_ nailed to the front. I pull out my keys from my pocket, dangling them in my hands. I have no fucking clue why I'm so anxious. Or is it because I'm nervous? Fuck, I don't even know.

I turn the key, and the door slowly swings open. There's silence. I creep inside, and my eyes instantly flash to the bed. There's no Brittany. I look to the kitchen to the left. Brittany isn't there. I glance to the right. Brittany isn't on the couch.

_Fuck._

My heart starts to hammer in my chest, and I'm pretty sure I'm panicking. I shut the door behind me and make toward the bathroom. I knock on the door, "Britt? You in there?" There's no response. I grab the handle and push it open. Brittany's not there either.

I make my way over to my bed, and face plant onto the mattress, letting out a heavy sigh.

_She's not here._

I let out a loud grunt, and roll onto my pillow. My face immediately collides with something rough and scratchy. I shift back to my previous position and crane my neck to see what it is. It's a sheet of paper. I give it a quizzical look and grab it, crushing it in my hands. But, before I could toss it off my bed, I spot something; a flash of purple. I furrow my eyebrows, and unfold the piece of paper. My heart drops. I know that handwriting anywhere.

_Hey Sanny! I'm out with a friend, so I'll be back in a few hours. I'll see you later? Call me :)  
_

_ Love, Britt-Britt 3_

I gape at the note in my hand, my eyes staring at the cursive l's and loopy y's. I read it over and over again, memorizing every little detail. Like the way she said Love, Britt-Britt and how she signed it off with a fucking heart. I can't help but inwardly smile. I missed her handwriting. I missed her notes. It was something that I always loved about her. It was something that I fell in love with. Something that I fell in love with, because it was her and nobody else. Because it was always her. And only her.

I set the note down on my nightstand, and sit back against the bed. I don't know why, but something seems off about the letter. It's fucking adorable, and I love everything about it, but….. Who's this person she's seeing? And if she wants me to call her, why isn't she picking up her phone? I mean, it's probably nothing, and I'm probably just freaking the fuck out for no apparent reason. But, I can't help but feel like there's something she's not telling me. I know it's none of my business who she hangs out with. We just kind of got back together. Are we together? Fuck. I need to know where she is, and when she'll get home, so we can settle this thing. Whatever the fuck it is. I want to know if she wants to get back together. I want to know if she's here to stay.

I don't think I'm ready to say goodbye. Fuck.

I glance at my clock, and the red numbers flash 1:37. I let out a heavy sigh, and get up off the bed and head towards the kitchen. I grab my phone from the counter, and dial Brittany's number. One more time.

_Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring._

_"Hi! This is Brittany! Leave me a message!"_

"Fuck." The phone drops from my ear, and I slide it across the counter. I then head for the window, scooping up my pack of smokes, making myself comfortable against the fire escape landing. I pull out a stick, and light it, enjoying the Nicotine more than I should.

New York surrounds me, and I watch people stream past each other, trying to get to their desired locations as fast as possible. I watch the taxis swerve around one another, trying to pick up stranded business men and women. I hear the occasional honk of a horn, a shout from a random bystander, the monotonous, yet tedious sound of the busting city. They all have something to do. While, I'm just sitting here, doing fucking nothing; waiting for someone to come home. For someone to come back to where I hope she belongs.


End file.
